There was a difference between being good at something and being exceptional at it. Easton was exceptional at his job, he had to be with his career choice. Being a detective was a cut-throat field and that's not including all the deaths he's witnessed.

His co-workers hated him. All the assistants he hired hated him too, that's why he went through them every month. But he needed the best men working with him, his job demanded it. He demanded it.

That's what he reminded himself as he kicked out his latest assistant, having to start the recruiting process over again.

Luckily there was a high demand for men who needed jobs. It was 1888 and New York was booming with new opportunities and young folks wanted to get their taste of the big leagues. They saw him as the chance to do just that.

You saw him as the chance to do that.

"I don't think someone of your," He pauses, taking a small inhale of your cigarette. Looking around his office for a nicer way to reject you. "Stature would do well here."

Death, gore, and crime wasn't a life for everyone and you didn't seem like the type to stomach it well. He didn't need someone fainting at a crime scene.